I shouldn't have tripped over you,
Hell, I didn't even write about you,
You didn't shake me,
I mean the wind can make me budge more than you,
or light a passionate fire in my stomach that blazes only
when I see your eyes.
Hell, I didn't even write about your eyes,
how uninteresting they were.
To worry over you anymore would be a waste of my time,
almost as much as you were.
As a writer, we only write about people we love,
and baby-doll,
I didn't even pick up a pen for you.
Looking through the pages of my journals,
yes, you could say there were short entries,
never full pages,
scribbled about you,
but baby,
if you think those simply thought out records of my thoughts
count as true writings,
you've got it all wrong.
You were an entry on an off-day,
scrunched at the bottom few lines of my journal
if I had space to write while still leaving room for things that truly matter.
I've composed characters and love poems and novels
based on ex-'Could-Have-Been' lovers
that are now written off as mistakes,
and baby,
you weren't even regrettable enough to make that list.